


Magic

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 11:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: I don’t know about you, but I need a shower.





	Magic

He peeks out from under a puff of white cotton sheet. His cheeks are port-wine stained, his lips silk-shiny like cognac.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a shower.” His words slip out on a warm breath. There’s a familiarity about this, she thinks, even though this is brand new. It’s the second time she’s stayed, the third time they’ve made love, but the first time he told her how he feels about her. It seemed so natural, to hear him whisper those words.

Tangled up with him in a perfect fusion of covetous limbs and lush kisses, he placed the ‘I’ on her jaw, just to the right of her chin; he placed the ‘love’ on her cheek bone, just below her eye so that she might see it, and the ‘you’ on the tender spot below her ear so that she, the object of his declaration, could feel how that personal pronoun sounded. She sucked it off his tongue, in the end, because she wanted to know the taste of that sentence. Commit it to her sensory memory.

He stands, naked, without embarrassment, at the foot of the bed, ruffling the sheet back over her so the waft of cooler air makes her nipples tingle. His body is marked with striations from the bedding, from her fingernails, with the light abrasions of her teeth as she nipped him. A canvas of love, she thinks, then giggles.

“What?” he asks, twisting back towards her, framed by the doorway. His chest takes on shadows, the patch of hair shining, caught in the peculiar glow of the fish-tank. His face is slants and angles, like an artist’s crude sketch before features are fleshed out. She likes the thought of knowing Mulder at his bare minimum, a series of lines and connecting points, a frame on which to hang whatever shapes their union will morph him into. Will he be fuller? More fleshed out? Is she the artist who will give him something extra?

She giggles again and he moves back into the room, crawling over the rumpled covers to capture the sound from her lips. She wonders what her happiness tastes like?

“You’re making me regret my decision to leave this bed,” he says and rests his finger and thumb under her chin.

“Go,” she murmurs. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

His smile is caught between sly and shy. He pushes himself upright, straddling her, so that his torso is above face-height, the dark nest of pubic hair, so close it tickles her midriff, his half-hard cock insistent against her navel. How easy it would be to pull him down and fuck again? She feels the slipperiness of their earlier joining between her legs, blood filling the area again, so that her flesh is swollen, pulsing. It’s too easy, she thinks, to succumb to their bodies and instincts, to carnal urgency, to leave each other marked and sweaty and flushed. Harder, is to lend meaning to the act, to weight words with depth, to pull at the edges of this new thing and lengthen it, strengthen it. It will take effort, energy. 

“Go,” she says again, pushing him away, watching the muscles in his thighs, his ass, his back at work. The sound of plumbing is a comfort, beating like a heart, as she buries her head in his pillow, drawing in the scent of him.

He’ll be back and they’ll make love again, perhaps slower, as they each get to know what the other likes, needs. He’ll be fresh and clean and new again, another canvas. The sky outside will begin to silver, as the sun rises, sending different colours through the blinds.

Just like the days, the nights, the shadows, their skin, she knows their relationship will flex and bend and appear different to everyone who looks. She smiles at the thought, at having something kaleidoscopic, illusionary, all to themselves. Science offers her answers to many things, but there is no adequate explanation for Fox Mulder and the way he has slipped into her heart and soul. It’s simply magic.


End file.
